


Gotta Be in Monticello

by TongueTiedandSqueamish



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blindingly yellow paint, Gen, Humor, Monticello, They're both assholes to each other and that's why they're great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TongueTiedandSqueamish/pseuds/TongueTiedandSqueamish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander visits Monticello for the first time and proceeds to poke fun at Jefferson's style at every possible turn, as is expected.<br/> </p><p>  <em>“What the fuck?” Alexander threw a hand over his eyes and nearly stumbled back, half-blinded by the sheer brightness of the paint.</em></p><p>  <em>“It’s called chrome yellow,” Jefferson announced proudly, striding into the room and trailing a hand over the fine wood of a dining chair. “It cost me more to paint this room than it did to furnish it.”</em></p><p>  <em>“Why is it so expensive? Does it give off radiation that causes blindness?”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotta Be in Monticello

All things considered, Monticello was not as exuberantly offensive as Alexander had braced himself for. Given Jefferson’s unrelenting arrogance, the fact his favorite coat was that purple monstrosity, and that he owned a _plantation house_ in the first place, Alexander had expected gold-accented appliances, gaudy art that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, and unnecessarily ornate trappings like doorknobs carved to look like budding roses or stained glass window scenes like a cathedral. The neoclassical architecture, complete with pillars, struck him as a pretentious attempt to appear sophisticated and cultured, but at least it meant the gestures of wealth were restrained from becoming obnoxious. As Jefferson traipsed through the house, smiling smugly as he gave the tour, Alexander would even call parts of the house _muted_ , a few rooms painted a mere calming white and stocked with a rich but simple and clean décor.

And then they walked into the dining room.

“What the fuck?” Alexander threw a hand over his eyes and nearly stumbled back, half-blinded by the sheer brightness of the paint.

“It’s called chrome yellow,” Jefferson announced proudly, striding into the room and trailing a hand over the fine wood of a dining chair. “It cost me more to paint this room than it did to furnish it.”

“Why is it so expensive? Does it give off radiation that causes blindness?”

Jefferson rolled his eyes. “After we finish hashing out the newest compromise to the rural allocation fund bill, this is where we’ll be having dinner, so get used to it.”

Alexander lowered his hand to glare at the other man, but the unnatural, beaming yellow of the walls distracted him half-way through the execution. “Jesus, I can barely open my eyes. This isn’t chrome; it’s _neon_.”

Jefferson laughed at him and walked out.

The rest of the tour passed similarly. Due to the overall frustratingly reasonable design, whenever something popped out as unusually lavish or ridiculous, Alexander jumped to mock it.

“This wallpaper makes it seem like some sort of princeling’s room.”

“It’s a French trellis pattern. This is where Madison usually stays. He likes it a bit more froufrou than I do.”

(Alexander disliked how close that came to sounding like they were agreeing on something.)

“These curtains are pink. Bright pink.”

“It’s a dignified color, Hamilton. I’m sorry your caveman brain can’t see past gender stereotypes.”

“Have you seen the lace on my shirtsleeves? Please, we’re past those stereotypes. I’m offended by the random spots of eye-stabbing color you have in this house.”

And later: “Your _bed_ is bright pink? Wait, no, forget that: why is it set in the wall between your bedroom and your office?”

“It’s not an office, it’s my cabinet, and it’s set in the wall so I can wake up and go straight to work or, when I’m working late, I can retire straight to bed without having to walk around to the door.”

Alexander bit back his automatic _that’s a brilliant idea, holy shit_ and instead snarked, “It makes the room look like it belongs to a dramatic high schooler.” _I want it_.

From that point on, Alexander felt increasingly uncomfortable. They passed through the “cabinet” and Alexander saw the clutter of Jefferson’s things, the papers spilled across a desk’s surface, a book opened and forgotten, the various detritus of knick-knacks such as a historical bust and a small antique model of the Orville brothers’ plane. Then there was the book room, and Alexander saw how each of Jefferson’s books seemed weathered in the way of old, affectionate friends. And then Jefferson showed him his small greenhouse and his workbench, where he apparently made _locks_ and _chains_. Small, useful things made by his own two hands.

But then Jefferson swept them back out into the parlor with its bright pink curtains and austere eighteenth century art, and the two of them debated hotly about farmers and next year’s budget until Alexander’s apprehensive realization of Thomas Jefferson’s humanity abated without taking hold. (As long as he didn’t glance at the curtains or think about the art.)

When six o’clock rolled around, they migrated to the dining room, which remained as blinding as it had been several hours earlier. Every few minutes, Alexander rubbed his eyes and tried in vain to blink the spots out of his vision, and he cursed the paint’s complete lack of effect on Jefferson. A servant – the first Alexander had seen the entire time – laid out their plates and disappeared to fetch a wine bottle.

“It’s fresh,” Jefferson boasted, pointing at Alexander’s plate. Once he glanced down, he managed to identify it as fish, though he couldn’t tell what kind past his swimming vision. “Caught right here in Monticello.”

“What, caught in your freezer?”

Jefferson curled his lip. “No. There’s a pond I keep stocked so I don’t have to wait for a delivery.”

Alexander snorted. The unnecessary frivolity of Thomas Jefferson would never cease to amaze him.

Half-way through nursing his glass of wine and suffering through forced small talk, Alexander’s eyes focused on a set of three portraits on the far wall. “Jefferson,” Alexander began, sincerely confused. “Why do you have a portrait of John Locke, Francis Bacon, and Isaac Newton on your hideous neon wall?” He could recognize their faces anywhere: Locke’s emaciated and hawkish face, Bacon’s ever-present doublet and hat combo, and Newton’s fabulously voluminous mane. Three cartoonish looking men that made it into the record books as game changers.

Across the table, Jefferson grinned. “They’re the trinity of the three greatest men the world has ever produced.”

Alexander stared for a moment, and then held up one finger. “First of all, saying ‘trinity’ and then ‘three’ is a grammatical redundancy.” He added another finger. “Second of all, using the word trinity gives an uncomfortably religious context that I’m not sure what to do with.”

“I’m a Christian deist, I don’t—”

Alexander held up another finger, plowing on despite Jefferson’s outrage at the interruption. “Third of all, I can understand Newton, maybe, but Locke and Bacon? I can name twenty philosophers right now whose contributions created bigger impacts on society than them. You’re in love with France, why not give Voltaire a shout out?”

Alexander smiled as Jefferson gritted his teeth. “Who would you nominate instead, Hamilton? Any man you propose, I will refute and prove my choices superior.”

Alexander sat back and thought about it, keeping his eyes on the white tablecloth so he didn’t continue to blind himself via the sunny menace of the paint. He considered answering honestly for a moment, then immediately discarded the idea and rooted around for the figure that would incite the most Jeffersonian rage.

He smiled and tipped his head up, chin high, arrogant, and triumphant. “In my opinion, the greatest man that ever lived was Julius Caesar.”

Jefferson’s face went slack with absolute shock and then contorted into the most terrifying grimace Alexander had ever witnessed or provoked. “Julius Caesar?” he said, calm but strained, and then gave up appearances and slammed his palm on the table. “Julius Caesar?!” he shouted, gripping the tablecloth and nearly spitting in rage. “Julius fucking Caesar, Hamilton? The most famous tyrant of the Roman Empire? The man murdered to end corruption in Rome?”

Coolly, with the appropriate irritated inflection, Alexander replied, “He was the greatest and most successful of the emperors, and the Empire certainly didn’t prosper nearly as much in his absence.”

“He was deified, Hamilton, as in _treated like a god_. When has that ever contributed to the ideals of our nation?”

“I’m not implying anything about democracy here. You’re the supporter of state’s rights; I believe in a strong central government and who presented a better leader than Julius Caesar?”

“Literally fucking anybody!”

Alexander’s mouth curled into a devious smile. “Now, now, Jefferson, you’re losing all of your pretty, useless words just because I disagreed with you. That didn’t even happen when I pushing through my debt plan.”

Jefferson seethed at the mention of that hated piece of legislature and pointed angrily at his nemesis. “Which is still the most bullshit piece of work that screws over every state that happens to be successful and rewards the ones that lag behind! Fuck you! Get out of my house!”

“Now, Thomas,” Alexander crooned, “that’s no way to—”

When Alexander woke up in the hospital an hour later, black eye forming and head throbbing where his head had slammed into the hardwood floor of Jefferson’s dining room, Alexander laughed until he couldn’t breathe, although his head felt like splitting open and spilling across the hospital bed. “Worth it.”

(When he got home, Eliza couldn’t decide between scolding him or laughing with him, so instead she prepared a cold compress and hovered over him for a few days, clucking her tongue about bad decisions and the long-term effects of concussions.)

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by something I heard that said when Alexander Hamilton first heard about Jefferson's trinity, he (probably sarcastically) told Jefferson that he thought Julius Caesar was the greatest man to ever live, and Jefferson was scandalized and used this anecdote to argue Hamilton was a monarchist. While I have no idea how true that story is, I thought it sounded too hilarious not to reproduce. And then I started reading about Monticello and then it turned into 1,400 words. But hey, thanks for reading this silly cobbled-together story. I usually write darker and more serious things so this was a fun change of pace.


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